Lost, Reborn
by Gaerynn
Summary: The Wizarding World thought Harry Potter dead. He might as well have been. The Boy-Who-Lived returns with a sole purpose; reclaim everything that was taken from him. [Post-war, modern setting. Canon compliant except for the epilogue. Might contain mature content.]


**Disclaimer : everything related to the _Harry Potter_ series and the Wizarding World franchise belongs to J.K Rowling.**

* * *

Harry awoke as the door opened with a loud creak. He could not move an inch, even if he wanted to. He did not open his eyes either. He heard footsteps enter the dark room. He could see a dim light through his eyelids.

"Still asleep, mister Potter? We need you to wake up." A man said with a thick accent.

Harry didn't say a word. He kept playing dead, hoping to be left alone. Though he knew that would never happen.

"Not answering? Have you not learned anything? _Incendio_."

Harry would have screamed if his vocal folds had not already been torn apart. The green flames started biting his feet, their light burning the retinas dulled by constant darkness. Soon rose the repugnant stench of roasted flesh. Harry's whole body was stiffened by the pain, but he did not struggle; the shackles pinning him on the wall were too strong. His will to escape had been long lost. The pain, though, kept on coming. They made sure of it.

The man interrupted his spell. the flames remained a few moments then disappeared in a whisper. The jailer lit his wand with a flick, keeping the comforting darkness away.

Harry fell, his shackles unglued from the wall. He hit the ground littered with burnt human waste lifelessly. His feet and ankle, brittled by the fire, shattered on impact. Harry did not move any more, but he left out a long, dull grunt. The man forcibly lifted his head up by pulling on his long black hair, revealing his worn out face. The famed green eyes had lost the spark of life. There did not seem to remain anything from Harry Potter.

Harry knew better than to resist, even as he felt his mouth forced open. With a shuffling sound, the man put aside his wand and took something in his pocket. There was the squeak of a cork. Harry suddenly felt something liquid pouring in his mouth. The strange substance invaded his trachea, forcing a gurgling out of him. The potion made its way into his body, spreading extreme cold as if to freeze the pain dead while Harry nearly drowned.

The jailer released Harry's head which fell back to the ground with a thud. Harry coughed without a sound. The burning had died out, but his legs still felt like sore, dead weight. His body was silently lifted up and pinned against the wall again.

"Now that you're awake, mister Potter, we will begin soon. Answer the questions and you might eat."

Hidden by his unkempt hair, Harry's face kept its discombobulated look, some potion still dripping off his mouth, his eyes fixed on his tormentor in an empty gaze. As the man headed out of the room into a dimly lit corridor, switching off his wand with a slight grin, a spark of emotion finally emerged. If only for a moment, the emerald eyes of the Boy-Who-Lived were filled with turmoil and a rage few had ever seen.

* * *

" _What did you use to wake him up?"_

" _I used fire, my Lord."_

" _Of course you did. Very well. Bring it to me."_

Harry could not understand what the two men out in the corridor were saying. As a matter of fact, he did not speak Arabic.

The heavy footsteps of his jailer echoed away from him while another man came in. The fool aura he emitted instantly added to the filth of the room. Few men and women in Harry's life had been able to induce such disgust by their sheer presence.

The man's wand was lit up, tearing up yet again the soothing veil of obscurity, the last thing keeping Harry away from the monstrosity of his predicament. The warlock's rich crimson robes gently shuffled on the ground, sweeping dust and waste alike. He spoke with a deep, calm voice:

"Good evening, Harry Potter. I hope you are rested. Tonight, we will go over international matters again. As you know, I prefer conversations over monologues."

Harry's only answer was a weak grunt. He had not even listened; he could not anymore. Even if he had, he would not have wanted to speak to that man. Speaking was dangerous.

"Ha. Your throat might be sore because of the screaming. You can only blame yourself; if you were more talkative, I would not be here and you would be dead. But you are of no use to me if you stay aphonic, so let me help you."

The warlock pointed his wand at Harry. A kind warmth spread in his throat, restoring his vocal folds. The Boy-who-Lived was no more inclined to talk.

"How ungrateful", the warlock went on. "Do they not teach you manners at Hogwarts?" He shook his head in discontent. "If you are so fond of silence, maybe I should just have you Kissed. Ha, and there I am, monologuing. I told you, I abhor soliloquies. Do not make me repeat myself."

The warlock paused and pondered. Most would observe that Harry had already been broken down to an empty husk. But Harry's mind remained at its core intact; a testament to his Occlumency skills. The man in crimson robes knew it. He would keep on going until that core cracked open and revealed all his secrets.

The silence was interrupted when the jailer returned with a wooden box and a shallow metal basin which he gave to the warlock with a reverence.

" _Thank you, my friend. What do you think we should use today?"_ the warlock asked.

" _You know I'm partial to fire, my Lord."_ The jailer said with a smirk.

" _An admirable sentiment."_ The warlock replied mindlessly, opening the box and perusing its content. _"Ha. We have not tried that one. Splendid."_

* * *

Harry was suddenly fine. He had returned to the kind embrace of the black, away from all harm. Fire and ice had stopped taking their eternal, twisted turn at destroy him. Instead, he felt a slight pressure all over his body. The darkness tucked him in, embraced him like a mother. A soft, comforting voice whispered in Harry's ears.

"Harry, where does the ICW keep their prisoners? Certainly not in Azkaban…" The voice asked softly, with the same casualness as a question about the weather.

Harry felt the urge to confide in the dark, his faithful companion. "I-I'm sorry, I don't know." He said.

That was a lie. Something deeper within him kept the truth locked away. And the dark knew when it was lied to. It insisted, ever so gently, but Harry gradually found the strength to assert himself.

"No, I can't. No more. Let me sleep."

"Tell me, Harry, and you will have peace at last."

"No."

The dark remained silent as Harry felt a surge in pressure. The void was suddenly crushing him, the weight unbearable. He tried to struggle but was met with invisible walls. Anyone else would have screamed, but he didn't, for a familiar, long lost sensation came back to Harry's mind. The green-eyed boy had been buried away, back in his cupboard. And in the cupboard, there was no place for cries.

The agony worsened as a scratching noise emerged in the coffin, near his feet. Soon, he felt some things climbing on his legs. He could only hear the clicking of the swarm as the creatures kept crawling up Harry's naked body. He closed his mouth and eyes as they made their way to his face. He could feel them creeping on his lips, on his eyelids, in his hair, in his ears. Eventually, overwhelmed by misery and disgust, he let go. Harry blacked out gagging on the filth as it nested in his mouth and throat, unable to breathe.

Harry was not afraid to die, for death was nothing to fear. That, Harry had learned years ago. death was natural ; to deny it was only inhumane. A fool had once tried to flee from death; his shattered soul would never find peace. Death was now Harry's only hope for deliverance.

That is why he had to live.

Harry gasped for air as his head was forced out of the Pensieve. His crazed look was still blindly fixated on the silver strands of memories turned into torture instruments. As the adrenaline lessened, he devolved back to his silent, lifeless non-self. He could only hear the deafening whispers of the two dark wizards in front of him.

" _The man resists, but our patience will be rewarded. Harry Potter will break."_ There was no disappointment in the warlock's voice. Only somber determination.

" _I apologise, my Lord. We should have put him in better condition."_ The jailer said with a bow.

" _Worry not, my friend. Other business awaits, but I will be back in two days with more material. Until then, you and your men will do as you please. Do increase the Cruciatus treatment to twelve seconds twice every hour. Same questions. I want him fed and his lethal wounds tended to."_ The warlock prescribed with the informal tone of a healer treating the common cold.

" _Yes, my Lord. If I may, what do you have in mind?"_

" _A little Polyjuice_ mise en scène _. I finally got a strand of hair from the Weasley girl."_ The warlock said with a smirk.

The jailor had a wicked smile, his eyes bright with lust. His Lord was so generous; it had been a long time since he and his men last had a female guest.

At the sound of the familiar name, the deepest remains of Harry's mind went into turmoil. He let out a feral scream, struggling despite his restraints and the shattered bones, breaking his vocal folds yet again. The animal was struck down in a flash of red light.

" _Fifteen seconds every half hour. Also, do not forget to Obliviate the finer details."_

" _Yes, my Lord."_

* * *

 **Author's note:**

Thank you for reading this first chapter. This is my debut work, so don't expect anything more than mediocre. Shoutouts to my awesome beta readers/proofreaders **Cams** , **Chenard** and **Sam**. You girls rock.


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